


Nothing Pure Enough

by Sineala



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Avengers Vol. 1 (1963), Drama, Getting Together, Hanahaki Disease, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:08:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24575833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: You shouldn't be able to develop a Hanahaki fixation on someone you've never met who's been dead for decades. But Tony has always been special.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 140
Kudos: 947





	Nothing Pure Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magicasen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicasen/gifts).



> Happy birthday, magicasen! I know you like Hanahaki and there's not a lot of it in 616, so... I am throwing my hat into the ring.
> 
> For people who are unfamiliar with the trope, [Hanahaki disease](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Hanahaki_Disease) is a fictional disease in which people who are in unrequited love have flowers growing in their lungs, whose petals they cough up. Typically, if their love is not returned, they suffocate on the increasing amounts of flowers. So it's basically Romantic Tuberculosis and also sometimes the author chooses flowers that Mean Things for added dramatic fun times. (Sometimes they can have the flowers surgically removed at a cost of removing their love. Sometimes not. It's up to the author.)
> 
> Thanks to cake and Lysimache for the German help, and to Blossom for taking a look at this. Also early canon isn't in the 60s here, but I don't think that really matters. But there are, of course, lines stolen from Avengers #4.
> 
> This story is also rated M and marked CNTW for the sole reason that it contains a brief, non-explicit sentence in which an underage character masturbates -- or at least intends to -- and I wasn't sure if that was enough to merit the Underage warning.

Tony knows when he first became a medical miracle: he was five years old.

It had been a rare family outing -- his father had taken him to Washington, to the Smithsonian, and he'd dragged Tony away from the National Air and Space Museum over to the National Museum of American History, a decision that Tony now assumes his father intensely regretted for the remaining sixteen years of his life.

And Tony -- enraptured, entranced -- had stared up at the Captain America exhibit, at the larger-than-life figure staring boldly off into the distance. And then he'd started coughing.

He remembers it perfectly. Tiny blue hydrangea petals had scattered all over the floor. His curse.

* * *

The thing is, it isn't supposed to be _possible_. Victims of Hanahaki disease, in addition to being near-uniformly post-pubescent at the time of onset, always fixate on someone they know personally, with a decent degree of familiarity. It's unrequited love, yes, but it's almost as if the disease wants to give them a fair shot. 

There have been a few exceptions to the personal-knowledge and familiarity requirement, and they get famous, precisely because they are exceptional. They tend to come in the form of stalkers. Everybody still remembers the news stories of John Hinckley and Jodie Foster; he was spitting out carnations in his mug shot.

But there's one more reason this should be impossible. All the Lifetime movies about grieving widows and widowers expiring with a cinematic and delicate exhalation of chrysanthemum petals -- they're not only trite, they're a lie. You can't fixate on a dead man. Not when you know they're dead. No one ever has.

And yet, here Tony is, with flowers blossoming in his chest for a man whom everyone now knows has been dead since 1945. The never-ending parade of psychologists confirm that Tony knows this too. Tony's grasp on reality is perfect. He just has an unrequited crush on Captain America. Who happens to be dead.

The upside, the doctors say, after a few weeks of observation, is that it's not likely to kill him -- or at least not anytime soon. It's not progressing at anywhere near the rate of a typical case of Hanahaki disease. Barring any sudden acceleration, they tell his grateful parents, he may very well be able to live a normal life.

So the doctors get a few papers for medical journals on this strange new curiosity, with Tony's identity neatly redacted, and they check up on him about once a year. They can't do anything for him.

His father tells him to keep it a secret.

Tony coughs flowers every couple of months. Only a few. A petal here and there. No one else notices.

* * *

The flowers, it turns out, get worse at puberty. It's pretty easy to figure out why.

Tony has one hour of blessed privacy once his roommate leaves, and, like any teenage boy, he doesn't have to think about what he's going to do. If he had thought about it, he'd have done something safe, something normal, gone to find a stashed Playboy or Penthouse. But no, Tony reaches for his favorite fantasy, for the pictures of Captain America, and unzips his pants.

Thirty seconds later, his diaphragm is spasming in agony, and there's bloody mucus and white magnolia petals all over his pillow, and he is never, ever, ever going to jerk off again, oh God--

Tony drags the garbage can over and picks out the petals, one by one, hiding every shred of evidence, and then he disposes of the trash in the dumpster behind the dormitory. He takes a mostly-steady breath, ignoring the tickle in his throat. It's a secret.

He's in the middle of taking care of the less-critical evidence, stripping the blood-covered pillowcases, when Ty comes back from lacrosse practice and unfortunately makes him go to the school nurse, who calls Howard, who takes him home and calls one of the family's private physicians, and Tony has the most mortifying conversation in the world with a seventy-year-old man who wants to talk to him about _his urges_.

Afterwards, Howard looks down at him, and even his sneer conveys disappointment. "Don't do anything else stupid, boy," he says. "You have your future to think of. You'll be running the company when I'm gone."

Tony shuts his eyes and tries to breathe. "Yes, sir."

Another coughing fit is trying to come on. If everyone leaves soon, he can make it to the bathroom sink.

Captain America would want him to stay alive. Captain America would want him to keep breathing.

* * *

Afghanistan is terrible, for more reasons than the obvious. Tony has to take a break, twenty-three hours into designing the chestplate. Yinsen helps him dress his wounds again and gives him the last dose of morphine in the first-aid kit. Morphine, Tony knows, is also an antitussive. Thank God.

As the drug takes effect, as the pain starts to recede, Tony shuts his eyes and ends up telling Yinsen the whole story. His secret. If he's going to die, he wants someone to know. He imagines the shrapnel piercing his heart and somehow working its way to his lungs, wrapped up in the flowers that will kill him. He wants to laugh. All his life it's been the flowers. Now it's going to be his heart. It'll be a race to see which one kills him first.

"The chestplate can't keep the flowers away," Yinsen says.

Tony coughs. It's a normal cough; no flowers. He's long since learned to distinguish the two. It makes something new and different in his chest hurt. If this works, he can be two kinds of medical miracle. "No, I know," Tony says. His throat feels like sandpaper. "Never thought it could."

Yinsen puts his hand on Tony's shoulder. The touch is a comfort until Tony starts thinking about how it might be the last time another human being will touch him there; the chestplate will cover everything. But this is what he has to do.

"You're strong," Yinsen says, with utter certainty, and Tony realizes no one has ever told him this before. "You've made it this far. And you'll make it farther." He half-smiles. "Perhaps it is not a bad thing, to be a man so moved by feeling. You have a strong heart."

Tony laughs. "A strong heart and a chest full of flowers," he mutters, and he lets the drug take him down into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Being Iron Man isn't so bad. It's a little lonely at first, but then he has the Avengers, and then--

There's a body in the iceberg lying on the table, practically all the space they have on this submarine. Red, white, and blue are starting to become visible through the clouded ice, and Tony can feel the familiar claustrophobic press of flowers in his chest, trying to rise up into his throat. God, he doesn't want to be sick in the suit.

"Don't you recognize it?" Jan asks, hovering above them. "It's the famous red, white, and blue garb of Captain America!"

Tony's been staring at pictures of this man all his life. "The Wasp is right!"

He's even more handsome with the cowl off, Tony finds himself thinking. He's blond -- who knew? -- and his features are strong, finely chiseled even in the pale repose of death. He looks like he would have been about Tony's age, if he were alive.

_That's right_ , Tony tells himself, sternly. _He's dead. Here he is. He's goddamn dead, see? Here's his body, so you can quit it with the flowers. He can't love you back._

He swallows hard and tries not to cough.

"Listen!" Jan cries out, interrupting Tony's spiraling thoughts. "He isn't dead! He's breathing! His eyes -- they're flickering!"

_Oh, no._

Tony backs away as fast as he can. "I'm sorry," he manages to say. "I have to go. Urgent. Uh. Restroom. Be back soon."

He rushes down the corridor into the sub's tiny head, shuts the door, rips his helmet off, and he doesn't even make it to the toilet or sink before the flowers start. They're roses, this time, falling into the curved shell of his helmet as he slumps to the deck. The petals are a striking blood-red, coming out of him in single petals at first, then clusters -- and then, finally, a damning full blossom.

Tony knows all about Hanahaki progression.

He's out of time.

* * *

And then it's even worse, because he actually has to meet Captain America. As Iron Man, he puts it off, pleading illness -- which is, of course, actually the case -- and manages to stay away from him until they reach New York. He ducks back into doorways whenever he hears booted feet on the floor. He knows even a glimpse will set him off, now.

He hears Jan, down the corridor: "--and then there's Iron Man. He's been feeling a little under the weather since you woke up, but I'm sure you'll get a chance to meet him soon."

"Iron Man, huh?" says a voice Tony's never heard before, and that must be-- that must be--

Too slow. He's spitting phlegm and blossoms down the inside of his mask, out the mouth-slit. When he wrenches his helmet off, he sees that they're roses again, white this time.

Red, white, and blue. That's what they've always been. At least his cause of death is going to have a sense of dramatic irony.

* * *

There's no more putting it off when he reaches the mansion. Captain America will want to see the Avengers' benefactor in the flesh, after all. Tony bites his lip, straightens his tie in the mirror, and takes three different antitussives, one of which is a high-dose synthetic opioid, and none of which he suspects are meant to be taken together.

It's okay. He just has to get through this conversation. Maybe it will even be nice, to get to meet Captain America once, finally, after all these years of loving him. Tony has double-checked the Avengers' funding paperwork with the Maria Stark Foundation. The team will go on without him. Everyone will be all right.

Tony comes down the main stairs, and the man in red, white, and blue sitting on a chair at the side of the room stands up, pulls his cowl back, and holds out his hand. He's smiling a smile that simultaneously warms Tony's heart and makes his chest seize up.

"Hi," Captain America says. "My name's Steve Rogers. Call me Steve. I'm guessing you're my new landlord?"

Captain America -- _Steve_ , oh God -- looks a little tired, a little confused, but his eyes are so kind, so wonderfully kind, and Tony swallows hard and he can't do this, he can't, he can't--

He has to.

"That's me," Tony says. Somehow he makes himself smile. "Tony Stark, at your service. I'm very happy to--"

And then he's gagging, he's choking-- where's the closest-- kitchen, he'll go to the kitchen--

"Mr. Stark?" Steve's voice is echoing from somewhere behind him as Tony runs. "Mr. Stark, are you all right?"

Tony doubles over the kitchen sink and-- oh, how nice, it's blue hydrangeas, just like the very first time, except now they're coming out of him in clumps and handfuls, in whole blossoms just like the roses had.

When the spasms finally stop, he washes out his mouth and starts to shove the blossoms down the garbage disposal, which is when a red-gloved hand lands gently on his arm, which is a bad idea for a number of reasons. Steve shouldn't be touching him. He'll feel the chestplate. Maybe it doesn't matter if Steve feels the chestplate. Tony will be dead anyway, soon enough.

He wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand and answers the question Steve didn't ask. "It's called Hanahaki disease," he rasps. "Ever heard of it?"

When he glances over, expecting a confused face, he sees Steve nodding. "Not by that name," Steve says. "My ma used to tell me, in the old country, a neighbor's daughter had it." He says some word that must be Irish. "She coughed up flowers, pining away for her unrequited true love. I thought it was only a story until I joined the army. Found out that Hydra had been running experiments on it. _Blumenbrech-Krankheit_ , they called it," he adds, and Tony may not know Irish but he knows German just fine. "They were trying to... see if they could induce it in their captives." He shudders. "And they were testing the progression on people who had it, keeping them away from their, uh, their beloved, so they could never confess, and seeing how long it took them to-- uh. Well."

Steve looks down at the mess of petals in the sink and back up at Tony. Tony watches his throat work, watches him realize that he knows just how far along Tony is in the progression of the disease, watches him try to figure out how diplomatic he should be, if he should tell him--

"It's okay," Tony says, softly. He's almost accepted it now. The words scrape against his raw throat. "I don't have a lot of time left. I know."

Obviously uncomfortable, Steve shifts on his feet and looks away. "I know it's none of my business, but I assume you tried telling them how you feel?"

"Not-- not exactly," Tony says, and damn him, apparently he can't even lie to this man.

Steve sounds honestly shocked. "No? But--"

"I haven't had the chance," Tony says, his secrets spilling out of him like another spray of flowers. "I, uh. I only just met him five minutes ago."

Steve stops short and his face drains of color. Tony wants to run away but doesn't think he has enough breath to make it.

"It was supposed to be impossible," Tony continues. "I was the only one. The disease never lets you fall for a dead man. And you were dead, we all thought you were dead, and I never knew how any of this could be happening."

"I guess that answers that," Steve says. "Definitely not dead."

And then he gives Tony a crooked smile and takes Tony's hand in his.

Dumbfounded, Tony stares.

"Well?" Steve asks, like he's prompting him. "Going to ask me out, or do I have to do all the work around here?"

Tony's heart lifts, but-- "I don't want your pity. It doesn't _work_ if it's pity."

"Who says it's pity?" Steve asks, and for the first time in almost his entire life, Tony feels the pressure in his chest start to recede. "You're a good-looking fella, and you seem like a nice guy, and I'd like to get to know you better. I'm in favor of that. Been known to appreciate a good-looking fella from time to time." He pauses and grins almost ruefully. "I bet they never said that kind of thing about me in the history books, but it's true. Seems to me like you might be in favor of that too."

"Yes, but--"

"But nothing," Steve says, with a determined glint in his eye that Tony suspects he'll be seeing a lot of. "Do you need me to kiss you right now to prove it?"

_Yes_ , Tony's heart says.

"I taste like blood and flowers," Tony says, frantically. "And you-- I-- I have a medical device, on my chest--"

"I'll be very careful," Steve promises, and then his arms settle around Tony, his mouth meets Tony's, and the awful weight in Tony's chest starts to lift. It's not gone, not yet, but it's going, it's going, and he's going to live through this after all.

Now _here's_ a story for all those medical journals and history books.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr post](https://sineala.tumblr.com/post/620202723028156416/fic-nothing-pure-enough)!


End file.
